#repeating the same old cycle when it comes to them

[rotagnus]

situations, feelings. . . [pick-a-pile!]

an in-depth reading about feelings surrounding a situation, a person, etc. pick a pile per each situation/person you're asking about; general reading, with some specifics. i may put more readings up soon, may not!! but i hope that all of you have been doing well. apologies for the little hiatus; some personal things came up and overall my life is changing dramatically (positively :) ) so i have been trying to be less online.

pile 1 - buttons.

whatever this is has you acting differently. not necessarily in a bad way, but with the card polarity falling out, i think that it's showing a different side of you than you usually like showing to others. most of the time you're probably put-together and guarded; i'm getting that you guys like putting on an artificial costume for others because the real you is someone you see as sacred, tender, and easy to hurt. you can be the kind of person who has slightly crude humor, the person who seems to push others away; wry and sarcastic, or maybe you're simply cold and people feel like they can't get through to you. whatever this situation or person is, they're forcing you to grow and change. with the magician and seven of cups, a lot of the things you've manifested consciously and unconsciously are coming up. this can be good things coming, or bad things, depending on how you've been thinking recently. surprises are significant, i'm hearing. you also may have been feeling weirdly open recently...the same feeling when you do something deeply vulnerable or authentic in front of someone and they give you a soft reaction and you feel all wriggly inside, if that makes sense. the lesson that this person/situation will end up teaching you is to stop viewing things with such an analytical lens. you possess this strength in you; you wield a sword in both hands, and you fight for your people, you fight for your morals. but this leaves you with very little room to be soft, and i know that deep down, no matter how hard you push people and good things away, you still crave them, and a part of you hopes that they do come to you because you deserve them, not because they're a trick. if this is a person you're asking about, you may be blaming the universe because they also seem different...maybe too good, as well. the whole situation is different to what you've experienced before, and you're very tentative. i heard the word 'sapling', so in the relative time scheme of the universe, many of you may be souls who love to reincarnate and come back to earth (if that is something you believe in)...experiences are very valuable to you, but you're also very closed-off while craving that connection. at the end, this person/situation will bring you a security that lets you be settled within yourself even if the situation or person is without you, temporarily, or permanently. many of you have this mindset of needing a certain thing or someone to be comfortable by yourself, but this is the universe showing you that you are more than enough for yourself. a lot of you may be panicking, reading this; 'oh no, this thing is gonna disappear!' but my whole point is that by the end, you'll be secure enough, most likely WITH whatever you're afraid of losing. if not, the cycle will keep repeating. take care, my love; keep hydrated, and remember that you are beyond treasured.

signs: green eyes. black animals. duality. armchairs. brushes. eastern religions. prayer. television. lines. branches. coconut.

pile 2 - creativity.

a lot of the major arcana fell out with this one. the hanged man, the chariot. also awakening from a different deck. what i'm understanding is that this is either the dead things from an old phase that you just finished, or a beginning, so i'll do my best to explain both versions, so you can decide if this applies to you ! :)). so for number one, i think that the first part of you are carrying grief from something ending, and while you know that this is dead and gone, you still hold onto it with the fear of not finding something better. this may have been someone LITERALLY disappearing from your life; ghosting you, moving, a break-up, death, etc. or it could have been a metaphorical movement...growing distant, growing apart. many of you are clever people, and you know that this was simply a lesson, if it wasn't it wouldn't have felt like it was coming to an end. but a lot of you are scared to move onto something new, and you're clenching this corpse in between your hands. for the second part of you, this is something new, that seems better than before. and the card discernment fell out, so a lot of you are being quiet about this. you don't wanna scare it off; it's like a baby animal, and you're just observing it without coming closer. the last phase of your life left you tired, and you're just hesitant to do anything more than observe. a lot of you asked about a specific person, i think. there's this whole melancholy vibe i'm getting...a song that popped up is 'i'll see you when we're both not so emotional' so i think that a lot of you did have strong ties to this person, and it felt like a part of you disappeared when they did. it was a painful, raw ending, and a part of you might have wanted revenge, might have wanted to show them that they hurt you so deeply, because to them it seems like they didn't care that much. but this is me telling you that wayyy better things are in the future, because now you're equipped to hold more instead of messes that were NEVERRR yours to fix. you are...genuine? yes. kind? yes. reliable? yes. but the past few years, all of these traits have soured and you overdo things as a way to escape the fact that you feel like you can't be loved simply by existing. so that's something that'll come to the next phase of your life. and another thing, whatever fell away, it's a good thing. you don't need it as badly as you think you do. the other situation/person did, and just because you're deeply empathetic and can understand that, doesn't mean you have to go back. you don't always have to stay in tragedies. for those of you who are like '...i didn't lose anything'. this could be more metaphorical. innocence. movement. something going away. and the same thing applies to you, not to cling onto the past, and to look forward; way better things are coming, and now you have the hands to hold them.

signs: red roses. dreams about falling. crescent moon. something breaking; plates, glass. led lights. striped cats. highways.

pile 3 - bed.

the way that you guys are deeply loyal reminds me of dogs who care for their owners long after that person has betrayed them...stop giving your all to someone who keeps disappointing and hurting you, and someone who could live without you. this message may not apply to you; just some in this pile. anyways...onto the actual reading. a lot of you feel like everything is finally coming together. alignment, though it may not be what you thought you'd get when you imagined your dream life. loss has happened. but so has gain. right now, you guys are stepping into such powerful energy, and everyone can see it. it's like you molted; and now you shine brightly. 'the sun', 'the goddess', 'the emperor'...so yeah. you ARE all that. you got that confidence recently for a reason!! however, a lot of you feel alone. staring at everyone else forming connections, finding their partners...especially with the summer being here and all those mushy gushy romantic things trending. and your hope is wavering, with this situation, this person. however, seven of wands - KEEP THAT HOPE!!! don't lose it. keep it until you can't, and i know y'all can keep it forever. whatever it is that you want, it takes time. and you don't wanna rush it. and a lot of you also feel insecure; like you don't deserve it. but both 'the sun' and 'the star' fell out, and on the star, a woman is looking at it. so how i interpret it is that you think something is far above you 'cause it's a star, but you are the SUN. which is also a star. which means y'all are on the same damn level. so don't be insecure. i know it's way easier said than done, and i know you guys are ACTIVELY WORKING ON IT (woo! i am very proud of you), but this is just a reminder. you guys are actively progressing towards this thing...and while it may not end up as quickly as you want it, or in the exact way you want it, you will still end up feeling the fulfillment you imagined you would at the end. however, a lot of you have something going on that you know is not right for you, and is a grave that you could fall into...this is your sign to say no to that. you know it's a pattern that you'd fall into, maybe generational. SAY NOOOO. this new thing and this thing, they're different, and in your gut, you know that you have to choose the previous one. you can't fall back into old patterns. they're very hard to rework. you got this. by the way, you are wayyy more lovable than you think. you can be loved in every way you dream of. okay byebye!!

signs: cds. mousy. angry men. shakespeare. silver necklaces. fences. butterflies. radiohead. veins. pictures.

[teafiend]

Reasons to love this pairing (for me):

Their canon characters and personalities ❤️‍🔥

I love both of their blunt and straightforward manners, and especially Kang Gil Young’s brashly IDGAF attitude (she is so, so awesome 🤩)✨

Choi Yoon’s at times stoic kindness, and how they can be in conflict yet the real concerns behind that conflict came through clearly 🥰 They were always indirectly quite sweet with each other by being honest (relatively speaking, especially on CY’s part) and showing their care (gruffly).

I also love the subtle ways CY would defer to KGY later on, his often conciliatory attitude towards KGY. Or how much he trusted her to have his (their) backs. The ways he gradually opened up to her emotionally (in friendship). They made me squee so hard all the time while watching the show 🫣🥵😳

Canonically, (post-canon) you can make the case for the both of them being inexperienced - total greenhorns - in matters relating to emotional, physical and sexual intimacy, and would have to learn as they go along while being together (when already in their thirties), which is a trope I love dearly!

(Each others’ first and last 🥰🥹)

Also a pairing I could easily envision - canonical personalities and characteristics - being initially shy and adorable about their sex life but getting a bit freaky and kinky about it later due to their many issues?! What could be better?

Or the many ways they could bring a large measure of peace, understanding and companionship for each other?

And then Kang Gil Young being older and the more aggressive/take charge personality between the two? (Technically ‘age gap’/noona trope - if you stretch it 🤭 - *another shipper-fangirl screech*) That dash of light femdom spice in the mix? Literal OTP dreams-come-true❤️‍🔥

Their visuals are unsurpassed. Few male actors get my attention and most of the pairings (the dynamics and complementary factors are the main reasons for any love) I have loved through the years - with real life performers - usually just had me being ga ga over the actress, with the male characters (actors) merely a tag along (if) or tolerated in terms of interest.

To have two of my favorite types of visuals/aesthetics (in particular the actor because that is exceedingly rare) onscreen at the same time is literally the first time in my decades of fangirling❣️😭😍🤩

🥰🥹🥵 *virtual high-pitched fangirl scream of excitement*

They truly are the OTP of my dreams ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 (One I never expected to encounter but which I will forever treasure for the joy they brought into my life)

Ahh 😌

(Disclaimer: GIFs sourced from Twitter/X; sorry not sure who the creator is but definitely NOT mine)

[flwrkid14]

The Case of the Phantom Lipstick

Tim Drake is many things: a genius, a detective, a vigilante, a caffeine-dependent insomniac with abandonment issues and seventeen backup plans for every imaginable outcome.

What he is not, however, is delusional.

Which is why when he finds a kiss mark—an actual lipstick kiss mark—pressed to the inside of his favorite hoodie, he does not panic. He calmly, rationally, pulls the hoodie off, examines the fabric, and blames Steph. Probably Steph.

Except… it’s neon green. Not Steph’s color. Not Cass’s style either. Babs doesn’t do lipstick. Kon doesn’t own lipstick. And the only people who’ve been in his apartment recently are Bruce (definitely not), Damian (God, no), and Alfred (crime).

He throws the hoodie in the wash. Industrial cycle. Hot water. It should come out.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t even fade.

It glows slightly under UV.

Okay. Fine. One hoodie. Maybe it’s old. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe he bought it that way.

But it happens again.

And again.

And again.

Old hoodies. New hoodies. Hoodies buried at the back of his closet that he hasn’t worn since he was sixteen. A hoodie still in the packaging, tags attached—he opens the bag and there’s a green kiss mark on the inside sleeve, like it’s been waiting for him.

They’re always placed differently. Sometimes hidden in the seam of a cuff. Sometimes pressed on the back hem. One tucked into the folds of a sleeve. One directly on the chest, over his heart.

He checks for tracking devices. Hidden ink. Sensors. Spoilers. Anything.

Nothing.

And it doesn’t stop with the hoodies.

One day, after a long patrol, he peels off his Red Robin gear and catches a glimpse of green near the collar of his suit. He freezes.

Another kiss mark. Same color. Right on the inside lining.

There’s one on his glove. One hidden under the fold of his utility belt pouch. One on the lining of his cape.

What’s worse? The Batcave scanners pick them up. There’s residual ectoplasm. Babs runs the data three times before looking at him like he’s either cursed or dating something from the beyond.

(He’s not. He’s pretty sure.)

Every attempt to investigate it fails. The cameras glitch. Video footage loops or scrambles. Laser grids are bypassed by something moving through walls. Magical wards short-circuit. Even Constantine shrugs when Tim reaches out.

“Strong liminal energy,” Constantine says, puffing a cigarette. “Someone’s got their spectral claws in you. Not a curse though. Feels like... courtship.”

“Courtship,” Tim repeats.

“Yeah. Spectral wooing. Ghost smooches. Congrats on your engagement, mate.”

Tim hangs up.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Meanwhile, Gotham is experiencing what can only be described as “mild haunting.” But by Gotham standards, it’s barely a blip.

There are no mass possessions. No destructive battles. Just… ghosts. Hovering. Watching. Whispering things when Tim walks by. They show up at patrol spots. Float past his apartment. Some even drop cryptic notes: “May your union be fruitful,” and “Blessings upon the Chosen.” Occasionally they throw gifts at him. One leaves him a glowing thermos full of ghost flowers. Another—a floating knight in spectral armor—bows low while handing over a box of what Tim can only imagine is their version of chocolate, before vanishing with the words “For the chosen consort.”

Tim’s furious.

He’s not dating a ghost. He doesn’t know any ghosts. He doesn’t want to be courted by one.

...Probably.

Except.

Except sometimes, when he’s alone, he swears he feels someone there. Not threatening. Just present. A warmth in the air. A flicker in the corner of his eye. A soft sigh on the back of his neck. A whisper:

“Mine.”

And Danny Phantom—Protector of the Ghost Zone, King of the Infinite Realms, 100% a disaster bisexual—floats outside his window every other night with his face pressed against the glass like a cat trying to figure out if the human inside likes him.

Because Danny’s not trying to scare him! He’s just following tradition!

See, ghosts mark their chosen with energy. They ward off rivals. They court with gifts and blessings and acts of devotion. And yeah, maybe leaving lipstick marks on someone's battle gear is a little extreme, but Danny’s working with ghost etiquette, okay? And from where he's standing, no one's stopped him.

(Though Jason did try to stab him once. Danny considered it a bonding experience.)

Now Danny just needs Tim to say yes so the full wedding rite can be completed. The lipstick marks? Those are just... engagement placeholders.

The problem? Tim doesn’t know he’s essentially dating a ghost.

The bigger problem? Gotham’s ghosts do.

And they’re ready to throw hands with anyone who thinks they’re a better match for Tim Drake than the literal Ghost King himself.

Tim? He just wants one hoodie without magic lipstick on it. He’s not even asking for peace anymore. He just wants answers.

He’s so tired.

[sachinteng]

Syntax Error

After years of being asked about it, I thought I'd tell the story of my peculiar name, and explain what this little logogram I started using is about.

I don't look like my name should be Sachin. South Asian folks point it out to me all the time. If you don't know, Sachin is a Sanskrit name, and I am visibly not Desi, so people are often confused. People usually ask if I'm named after Sachin Tendulkar, the famous cricket player. And for a period of time my local Indian restaurant thought I was Indian and would give me free rice! Until they found out I wasn't and stopped. Very sad day.

So why am I named Sachin if I'm not Desi?

The name my parents gave me is 十晴. Specifically my dad. My father insisted on naming me. Spent months obsessing over it. But he never gave me an English name. And on the day I was born my dad was…asleep, didn't answer the phone which rang all day, and missed the entire birth. To this day my mother tells this story whenever I miss a phone call. So, when I was born they had no idea what to put on my birth certificate.

The pinyin translation for 十晴 is Shí Qíng. But my mom didn't know pinyin. The lawyer who drew up the paperwork for my birth certificate was Indian, and when he heard 十晴, he said, 'that sounds like Sachin. I'll just put that!' And my mother, tired and alone in the hospital, in a foreign land called Flushing, Queens, said okay. And who can blame her.

And that's how I got my name. In the most arbitrary, accidental way possible. My dad, after months and months of hyper-focusing on a name, fumbled it all right at the end. I wish I could say my name was meaningful in Hànyǔ at least but, my name is very strange to Hànyǔ speakers as well.

The character 十 means 'ten' as in the number 10. And 晴 means 'clear sunny skies.' It's the kind of word a weather reporter will commonly use in the forecast. Honestly, Ten Sunny Skies sounds like a Wǔxiá character. Like Eight Flying Lotuses or Five Poison Fists, or something. Not gunna lie, I prefer this explanation.

So my dad loves to tell this joke…about how his name is too hard to write. It has so many strokes in it that when he was in school taking tests it took him so long to write his name that when he was finished writing it the other students already finished taking the whole test. So, when he has a child he's going to make sure to give them the easiest name with the fewest strokes possible.

And that's where it comes from. Some dinner party joke he liked to tell friends. Thanks dad.

My name has a different meaning to me now as an adult. Over the years many people have heard my name and said, 'Do you know the story of Hòu Yì 后羿?'

An old folktale says there used to be 10 Suns. They would cycle one at a time, because there can never be more than one sun in the sky at the same time. But, one day the suns got lonely, they wanted to see each other and broke the rules. All 10 suns burned at the same time. To stop the suns from burning the entire world down Hòu Yì, the legendary archer, shot the suns out of the sky and left just one, the sun we have today.

It's a fable about doing too much, not thinking about the consequences, and literally burning out. Something I relate to more than I'd like. I burned out hard a few years ago and recovering was a long, painful journey that I never want to repeat.

In the end, the last Sun loses all their siblings and has to carry the burden alone. But, if they'd just had patience and paced themselves, there would still be 10 suns across 'Ten Sunny Skies 十晴.'

[joelsgoldrush]

“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3

The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart. 

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[literary-dolly]

girl dad boxer!jason x fem!reader

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

You’re exhausted. Jason’s been away for the past week for a title fight in Vegas, leaving you to handle your raucous four-year-old on your lonesome. Of course, he called every morning and night to check in, and had pre-arranged a few visits to the Manor with Alfred and Dick to gift you a few hours of peace - but it had done very little. Your little girl seemed to flip-flop between crying for her dad and jumping off the walls in anticipation of his return. Jason had assured you in times past that she was exactly the same when you left the two of them together, but you couldn’t help but feel that he was just trying to make you feel better.

She certainly was a Daddy’s girl.

The only thing that you’d found that seemed to appease her was old re-runs of Jason’s past fights and interviews. Bruce had a collection of all of them in the Manor library, and had kindly let you borrow them. They’d been near enough on repeat for the last 48 hours. As much as you absolutely adore Jason, even you were becoming tired of watching him punch people in the face on a loop. Your girl didn’t seem to share the same sentiment: biting her thumb anxiously when Jason took a mean punch, cheering when he threw one, and positively exploding with excitement when he won.

“Daddy, yes!”

The only things keeping you awake were coffee and sheer willpower - needless to say it had been a string of sleepless nights amongst the heightened emotions in your apartment. But it was much easier to admit that it was your daughter keeping you awake and not the fact that you too longed for Jason to return. It was a constant cycle of worrying, and even when Dick and Duke had come round to watch Jason’s current fight, unable to make it to Vegas on this occasion, you’d had to hide out in the bedroom far too anxious to watch the love of your life take a beating in front of your eyes.

He’d won, naturally. You’d never doubted him for a second. But his opponent was huge and mean, known for being a dirty fighter - he’d gone into it knowing he was going to leave with more than a few scratches. He’d called you afterwards he’d relayed his injuries, primarily a broken nose, dislocated shoulder and mild concussion. Otherwise unharmed, he’d said.

But he was due home any minute now, and it couldn’t come quick enough for both your sakes. Which is why when you can hear the rumble of Jason’s bike out the front of the building that both you and your daughter jump up in excitement, you scooping her up in your arms to look out the window amongst your giddy excitement. You made a mental note to chastise him later for driving so soon after a concussion, but you can’t find it in your heart to feel anything but sheer anticipation as you watch him make his way through the front doors.

“Go on,” you place your girl down with a kiss to her temple and a quiet laugh, “You know the rules. Go, hide now.”

In a thunder of footsteps, she beelines for her bedroom - no doubt going to hide under her bed for Jason to come find her, as she does each time he comes back home from a fight. It’s always under the bed, yet the look of surprise when Jason miraculously finds her time and time again never fails to bring a smile to your face.

As soon as you hear the jingle of the key in the door, you waste no time ripping it open rather than waiting even a second longer. Jason looks tired, and there’s a deep, swirled purple splotch creeping its way across his nose, seeping a yellowish green to ring around his eyes, but it does absolutely nothing to hide his rougish charm. The grin on his cheeks is a lazy one, lopsided and warm, and you’re in each other’s arms before even a second has passed.

He presses a multitude of kisses atop your head, “Missed ya’, baby. You look shattered.”

“You’re one to talk, big guy,” you mumble into his sweater, “Look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Guess we could both do with some TLC, hm?” Jason pulls back, simply to stare at you. To drink in all the minute changes in your appearance in the last week that only he could notice. Yours are clearly much less obvious than his own.

It’s a cough that echoes through the peaceful moment, small and clipped. You and Jason instantly share a look, both breaking into toothy giggles as he places his bag down by the door, creeping forward towards your daughter’s room.

“Baby, where is she?” He calls out teasingly, “She was supposed to be here. You can’t tell me she’s grown up and moved out already.”

Jason makes a show of looking around the apartment, knowing exactly what’s visible from the crack in your daughter’s door. She makes no effort to hide her giggles, but Jason remains ‘perplexed’ nonetheless. Eventually, when he finds his way to the bottom of her bed, he pauses, and you watch as the little girl’s eyes widen comically.

“Gotcha,” he chuckles, pulling her up into his arms, “Ya’ sneaky little thing.”

“Daddy! Daddy!” She practically cries, wrapping her small hands around his head. You pretend not to notice his wince when she knocks into his clearly tender nose, instead coming to perch as Jason’s side as he wraps his free arm snugly around your waist.

“I’m home now, baby,” Jason pecks her forehead, “I heard you’ve done a great job protecting your Ma while I’ve been away.”

“I did! Nobody even tried to come and get us!”

“Well that’s because you were here, obviously.”

You opt to watch silently as Jason begins to meander around the apartment, picking up stray toys and plucking a few snacks out of the kitchen cupboard, all with your daughter glued to his side. It’s sickeningly domestic. There’s a part of you that finds it hard to reconcile the image of this Jason with the one you met all those years ago, all fists and fire, charging head first into every thing and everyone with nothing more than a devil may care attitude.

He meets your eyes for just a second as he sets your girl down on the couch, and there’s nothing but love pooling in pointed look in your direction and all of sudden, you don’t really care how it is you came to get here. Not when you have everything you need right in front of you.

Sorry about the lack of updates, 10,000 words worth of uni essays are absolutely kicking my ass. I had this one laying around in the drafts and finished it off, don’t love it and it’s not proofread but I wanted to put something out.

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.

[bouquetface]

Atmakaraka Through houses

Sign, Aspects, and Planets will influence accuracy.

This post will discuss past lives and soul's purpose + karmas. Personally, I find the idea of past lives entertaining but I'm not sure it resonates. If you're the same, this post can still be read as entertainment.

This is not my own theory. It's a very old theory that considers AK to show your past life karma & current life purpose to clear that karma.

AK in First H

Your soul is here for itself. Generally, this is the best AK placement. It shows you have always given yourself to others in past lives. In this life, it's okay to look out for yourself first.

Now let's say Saturn is the AK you might feel burdened with all the work you have to do for yourself. You may struggle to have close bonds w people - family, friends or lovers. It might become lonely but your soul came here wanting that independence.

Where you can go wrong with this placement is choosing others over yourself again. EX: AK in First H, 7th H stellium - Certain events and people will come to you indirectly asking your soul to choose them/take care of them over yourself. You could feel a strong pull to do so but AK in First H shows that would be a mistake. In the next life, you'll simply have to repeat the cycle.

AK in 2nd H

Your soul is here to clear past life karma through money, resources and family. In a past life, this shows you received a lot of support and possibly money through others. Now, you have to learn the lessons, mature and build your own wealth. In some cases, you may feel inclined to help other people financially. You'll likely make money mistakes. You'll have family troubles - big or small. It'll be your duty to work on these areas of life.

Where you can go wrong with this placement is relying too much on other's resources again. It is believed this will simply increase the debt you owe making the next life even more difficult as now you have more to repay.

AK often isn't meant to be something enjoyable. It can feel like a burden but it is your soul's duty to complete this task.

You may even find in this life when you are becoming too dependent on others for resources, you experience life or health struggles. This doesn't mean you must make every single penny on your own or suffer. It simply shows active efforts to attain financial independence are needed to clear the karma. And in certain cases, helping provide resources for others like family members is needed to clear the karma.

AK in 3rd H

Your soul is here to clear karma though service for siblings, neighbours/community and possible the father-in-law. Your will be relied on and you will have to do a lot of short distance travel throughout your entire life.

A IRL example: This person has SUN AK in 3rd H - This person is fulfilling their AK duty daily - they take the siblings to school even tho it’s a walkable distance. In fact, when this person went to that same middle school, they were made to walk. Yet, the siblings demand to be driven this short distance. They don't even know abt astrology - simply the siblings are kinda spoiled & apparently refuse to go to school otherwise. AK's tests naturally appear like this in one's life.

Their family doesn't see or appreciate how helpful they are to the family/siblings.

AK often isn't something enjoyable. It feels like a burden but it is your soul's duty. Since AK is present throughout out entire lives, it is likely when the person is older something like the above examples will reoccur with their neighbours or father-in-law.

This placement should be cautious about cutting contact with siblings - especially younger siblings. The cycle is believed to repeat in the next life if you can't clear the karma off in this life.

It is believed in a past life you likely had a high position. You demanded these type of seemingly small tasks from those beneath you.

AK in 4th H

Your soul will have to serve the family, home and/or mother. In a past life you likely neglected the home and family. Now the family you come from and/or the family you create will provide opportunities for you to deal with your past life karma.

It won't always feel enjoyable having to take care of your family and home. However, it needs to be completed so the cycle doesn't repeat in the next life.

For instance: Moon AK in 4th House - You regardless of gender take on many domestic tasks in the home. This can be early in life or after marriage. You - more often than anyone else in the household - end up doing the chores - laundry, yardwork, cooking, etc. It could deeply frustrate you.

You could have issues with your own mother too. The sign and aspects and exact planet can offer insight on how bad the situation.

You should be cautious of cutting contact with your mother. It’s believed the karmic cycle will repeat in the next life. I'm not telling you what to do, personally I don't fully believe in past lives. If you have cut contact or have a very abusive family, you should do what is healthy for yourself.

AK in 5th H

Your soul needs to burn off karma through education and children. This doesn't mean your kids are going to hate you or be terrible. Simply shows you will have to pay extra attention and care to your kids. An example would be the child has trouble learning to read. You have to be the parent that is responsible for assuring the child is supported through this period.

Often AK is something that feels like a duty - not something enjoyable. There might be something in your life that causes you to continue having to educate yourself. This doesn't have to be formally.

AK in 6th H

This shows you're clearing your karma through service. You may find people and even animals always need help around you. Coworkers, friends, family will come to you for help - literal help or advice.

It'll sometimes feel like a burden. However with this placement it shows in a past life you were unable to or simply did not help those in need. It weighed on your soul, thus in this life you are correcting that.

AK in 7th H

This shows you're clearing your karma through relationships. This doesn't have to be in marriage, it can be in dating or any other type of relationship - even business or friendship. Your ego will be hurt when having to deal with people outside yourself. You will face humiliation in relationships or in public.

This placement shows in a past life you were the selfish one. You didn't complete your duty to a partnership - this can be in marriage or business or a different kind of relationship. Maybe you cheated, maybe you left someone sick, maybe you scammed your clients. It can be so many different scenarios. Generally, this is considered the worst AK placement as the best one is 1st House. You may have been very cruel and selfish in a past life.

This doesn't mean you have to keep bad people in your life. You are going to have to encounter them. You will feel hurt & humiliated, you'll move on. The worst thing this placement can do is once again only care about themselves again. The cycle is believed to repeat in the next life but it will be much more difficult the next time.

AK in 8th H

You have a duty to your spouse's family. You have either good or bad karma with them. At some point, they'll need your help and your resources. Example: The spouse's parent's needed him to give them money for retirement - not borrow - simply give, no repayment.

If the karma is really bad, it is believed the spouse's family will hate you upon first impression. Often AK is something that feels like a duty - not something enjoyable.

AK in 9th H

You have a duty to help your parent's/teacher's in your life. Example: You feel you owe it to your parent's to become a Surgeon.

You might need to experience something abroad or in university to clear your karma. Often AK's duty is something that feels like a burden.

The worst thing for this placement is to do something immoral or illegal. Some people can get away with doing illegal things in this life. Your life will find a way to punish you.

AK in 10th H

Your soul has to work to clear off their karma. You can find your are constantly working long hours, difficult tasks and encountering scatterbrained authority figures. In some cases, this shows difficulty in finding career success. You have to work 10x harder than others for the same praise.

In a past life, maybe you scammed people or something else that is illegal in the workplace. It can be many different scenarios.

AK in 11th H

Your soul clears off karma through eldest siblings, society or activism. You can become politically involved with this placement. You come face to face with the struggles of the masses. You can't hide from the world's issues.

Or it can be you have a duty to your eldest sibling. You may find your eldest siblings always needs your help. Throughout your entire life, chances to help the elder sibling will appear. It is believed to be a test of your soul. Will you help them and clear your karma or not? Choice is completely yours.

Keep in mind AK is often a duty that feels like a burden. It is unlikely to be something enjoyable.

AK in 12th H

Your soul desires isolation. You clear karmas through quiet. You might need to go away from the birth place. You need to find peace through yourself.

When you get carried away socializing/partying, your life will bring difficult scenarios to remind you that is not why your soul wanted to come back.

AK is often a duty that feels like a burden. It is unlikely to be something enjoyable.

This is only one placement and doesn't consider the planet that is AK, the sign + aspects. And positioning of Ketu. This is a very general post.

[awrkive]

angst + 14 + with jk make it HURT miss dee i trust you with my life 🙏🏻

14.  "If you walk way from me, I don't want you coming back."

note: im genuinely so annoyed i cant keep my words bcs this drabble is 2.5k words but i promise the next ones are gonna be under 1k 😭

Two lines. 

The first one is clear as day, and you’ve tried so hard to blind yourself from the other one that’s just barely there – barely because it’s faint but you’re not stupid and you know it is there. That it exists. That it’s crystal clear there are two. Fucking. Lines on the damned test.

Two lines. 

It’s funny how a single plastic stick can ruin your life in a matter of minutes. 

Your mother didn’t lie at all when she said that you’d know these things. That you will feel it when it’s there. A month ago you didn’t get your period and while you could have an irregular cycle sometimes, you had a bad feeling about this particular one; the fatigue didn’t feel usual, your hips and breasts are growing and it didn’t make sense. You hated key lime pie for most of your life but recently you feel like you could eat it for the rest of your days. 

That was not fucking normal. 

And when you vomited again this morning after waking up, you decided to take a test.

It was past 7pm when you got home from the drugstore, and thirty minutes had passed since then when you found out the result. There are three sticks in the strewn paper bag all over the sink – all of which shows you the same thing. 

Two damn lines. 

You’re pregnant and you don’t know what to feel about it. 

But who are you lying to? You know exactly what you feel about it. You feel like utter shit. Absolute fucking shit and there’s a lodge in your throat that breaks into a sob when it finally dawns on you that holy fuck you’re fucking pregnant. There’s a baby growing in your womb and you can barely feed yourself waiting tables at a shitty restaurant downtown. 

You cry.

Your shoulders shake as you sob silently in the lavatory of your tiny bathroom, the chipped edge of the mirror and the broken faucet reminding you once again that you are not ready for this. You’re only 23. You’re barely making ends meet. The gap year you took off school that was only supposed to be one year stretched into two because of financial issues and now… this? A kid? What would you do with a child? You aren’t ready. You just aren’t ready. 

This was not supposed to happen. 

You think that over again. This was not supposed to happen. It repeats in your head over and over again like a broken record until you break into yet again another sob.

You dig your fingers in the porcelain sink, let your body fall low as you cry until your throat hurt. Tears flowed until you felt numb inside. You wept until your body trembled, weak and unsteady, struggling to throw the sticks into the trash, wrapped as carefully as you could manage in your fragile state, afraid Jungkook might find them. 

He comes home in two hours. 

And for those two hours, you lie on the couch with tear-stained cheeks, thinking about what he would say; how he would react. 

You wish you live in the timeline where this news could be good rather than bad. Wish this could’ve brought you to tears of joy instead of… this hollow ache in your chest trapping your airflow you could barely breathe. 

But that timeline is non-existent. You’re living in the now. You’re a twenty-three-year-old woman living with your twenty-five-year-old boyfriend – and while both of you have jobs to sustain yourself in a rundown, shitty, sketchy apartment, having a kid is not ideal. It’s not in the picture. It never fit in the picture – not at all. You’ve never discussed this and you were mostly certain Jungkook would not receive this news with open arms and a wide grin. 

The thought brought you to tears again until you fell asleep. 

——— 

“Babe?”

Jungkook feels like a kid on Christmas day. He feels a bout of energy, and he wants nothing but to unleash it on you – and there are fun ways he can unleash it on you, alright – things that you both will enjoy on this cold January night. 

He can’t help it. His grin only grows wider when he steps into the threshold of your house and the waft of home fills his nostrils. This part of town is shitty but you’ve done your best to make your apartment smell good. It’s that citrus… lavender… whatever the fuck candle you buy, Jungkook thinks.

Hah. He should’ve bought you one or two, huh? You fucking love those scented candles. You hoard the hell out of them even though they could be expensive. It’s worth it though… and with the bonus he’s holding in his wallet, why not? 

The thought only makes him smile even more. 

You’d love the news. You’d light up in that usual way you do when Jungkook does something remotely good. Anything that means he’s straying away from the destructive life he’s always led before he took your relationship seriously – you love it. And Jungkook admits he loves it, too. Loves doing good for you. Loves when he makes you happy. 

He doesn’t believe in changing for other people because fuck that, this is his own life and he does whatever he wants with it – but you’re a part of it now, a great part, and Jungkook will be damned if he loses you. He certainly did before – and for all the dumb decisions he’s made in his twenty five years, that one was the worst. 

“Baby?” he calls again when you give no answer. He’s sure you’re home by now, though, and so he crosses the distance to the threshold and living area, finding you in the couch cocooned like a burrito.

Chuckling, he steps closer and lets the cushion dip in his weight when he sits on it. You’d give him an earful if you see him letting his outside clothes touch your sheets but right now all he gives a fuck about is you hearing the news about his promotion at work. Granted, it’s not “promotion” per say, it’s just that he’s going up from being an apprentice to an actual tattoo artist at the shop. He can finally quit that job at that shit-paying convenience store and can focus fully on the shop which he actually likes doing. And he can finally get a more formal pay as well. It’s all for you. 

When Jungkook rolls you to his side, he swiped away the hair that’s gotten all over your face. You stirred, but when you wake up, Jungkook frowns. 

“What the fuck happened?” 

Your eyes are puffy and red. Swollen. You look tired, drawn, exhausted. And Jungkook couldn’t have mistaken the tear stains on your cheeks for anything other than you've been crying.

“H-huh?” You say, obviously still not fully conscious.

“Were you crying?” Jungkook asks, concern growing heavy. He tries to think if you texted him today about something – but other than your usual texts of I love yous and I miss yous, there was nothing. So what could you have been possibly crying about? 

It seems like you’ve snapped the haze of sleep off your mind because you quickly turn away from his touch, untangling yourself from the sheets and sitting upright. 

“Nothing.” 

Jungkook’s brows crease even more. 

“What?” 

“I said nothing!” You snapped, which surprised the both of you. Jungkook doesn’t have a clue what the fuck is going on – but then you turn around to look at him and you look so fragile and scared shitless and sad and broken that it just sends him into utter confusion when you stutter, “I’m– I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Jungkook says, a bit irritated now because he doesn’t like it when you skirt around what you feel. “What happened?” 

He tries to ignore the fact that when he lifts his hand to put it on your thigh, you flinch and your muscles grow tense. As if you don’t want his touch. 

“I was… I was watching a movie.” you say, lips tilting into a small smile Jungkook knows is fake. 

Now he’s just perplexed. What the fuck is all this about? You’re flinching at his touch and you can’t even look him in the eye as you fake a smile at him. 

He peels his hand away from you and stands up from the couch.

“Yeah?” He knows he has a temper. And it definitely shows when he continues to saracastically add, “Pretty fucking dramatic movie, huh?” 

You stay quiet but you definitely have a physical reaction to his sharp tone.

Every single second that passes and you still don’t utter a single word, Jungkook begins to feel like this air is growing into tension. 

And his defense mechanism gets the best of him. 

“Alright, lay it on me,” he says with a leveled tone, staring at you coldly. “Are you breaking up with me?” 

Jungkook thinks that must be it. There’s no way there’s another reason why you’re acting like this; looking at him in that solemn way. 

Two years. Two years of trying to fix him and you’ve finally reached the rim of your dam. You finally realized he’s not worth your time, that you could have so much better, be with better men, have a better life with them than whatever the fuck you have and will ever have with him. 

Jungkook’s always been aware of that. It’s not even self-deprecation, it’s just facts. 

But fuck if it didn’t hurt to confront it this way. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Two words. 

Two words and it’s enough to make Jungkook’s head spin. 

“What?” He asks again, because there’s no way you just said that. 

“I’m pregnant.” you repeat again, this time louder. Jungkook sees you inhaling a sharp breath, and it’s clear to him when your eyes begin to tear up. “I’m pregnant, Jungkook.” 

His mouth closes and opens like a fish in a tank. He goes from confused then disbelief then just… nothing. 

“You’re… you’re pregnant.”

You obviously take his tone as something different, and Jungkook can’t blame you when you snap once again. “When you put your dick in me without a condom, that’s what usually happens, so yes, I am pregnant with your child, Jungkook.” 

“You let me put my dick in you without a fucking condom,” Jungkook retorts, looking at you incredulously. “What the fuck, __? What– what happened with– are you not taking your pills?” 

“Fuck you!” You roar, venomous and mostly hurt. 

Jungkook knows you’re feeling more like the latter. 

He knows that, and yet, he decides to press more. 

“What did you fucking expect, babe? That I was gonna smile and laugh and carry and spin you around this fucking– this fucking tiny apartment?” Jungkook gestures around wildly, and he hates that when he looks at your face it's now contorted into tormented pain. Your shoulders shake as you sob silently. But his head is on a haywire and he feels like he can’t think straight. You. A baby. You two. A family. He runs a hand along his face. “We’re barely making ends meet. You wait tables while I only rely on commissions from my apprenticeship at the shop and earn shit at that convenience store five blocks away. We can barely afford the fucking AC and – and now you’re telling me you’re pregnant? What the fuck do we do with a fucking child, __?” 

“I don’t know!” You say exasperatedly, abruptly standing up from the couch. You sniff as you rub away at your eyes – red from all the crying you must have done and been doing. 

“So why the hell would you get mad at me for reacting this way?” Jungkook answers, because frankly, he doesn’t understand. And then he says the next words he thinks of, “Are you keeping it?” 

He regrets it the moment it comes out of his mouth. 

You usually look at him with so much adoration in your eyes – so genuine and loving that Jungkook gets confused sometimes – but now you look at him with nothing but pure distaste. Hatred. And even he was taken aback. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck the answer to that horrible question is. But whatever the hell I do, you decide if you want to be part of it or not – and with the way you’re acting right now, I’m assuming you want out,” you say, voice firm and full. Gone was the fragility, all Jungkook could see was a stone-cold person in front of him who didn’t give a fuck about whether or not he stays in her life. And your next words further prove that. “But there’s something I want you to know and make sure you remember this: if you walk away from me, right now, I don’t want you coming back. Ever. And I mean that. I mean that, Jungkook.” 

Jungkook stands glued there in the middle of the living space, heart squeezed to fuck and his lungs tightening as he processes your words. 

He follows your figure as you disappear in your bedroom, feeling like the room is suddenly spinning when you leave.

Jungkook lets himself fall on the sofa and for the first time in what felt like years, he cries. 

[soulcaketuesday]

Eight of Pentacles 🌤️

Eight of Pentacles symbolises diligence, self improvement and learning new skills. Miki sits peacefully in an overgrown sunlit garden, having spent all day painting birdhouses. Instead of chasing his nostalgia, he's honouring it by creating something practical and new. Sometimes you need to let go of perfectionism and just enjoy the act of creating - it might not be a masterpiece that perfectly captures the magic of childhood, but putting a lot of effort and sincerity into a project will always be worth your time.

this is one of my pieces for a zine that was unfortunately cancelled. the other piece is here, go look at this kid winning the cycle of violence. drafts and notes below

will you guys make fun of me if i over-explain this to death 🥺👉👈 so um the inspiration for this is the start and end of ep26: starting with kozue trying to save a birds nest as a tree is being cut down, and ending with miki putting up a bird house to replace the tree. the bird house doesn't repair their relationship - they don't speak in the moment except to insult each other - but when we see them next in the finale they're a lot more comfortable with each other! is miki's birdhouse an empty gesture or is it the first shaky step to finding an understanding? idk 😊 i think its neat

i thought itd be nice if he was approaching art and creativity in a more relaxed way, just enjoying learning a new skill. repeating the same song over and over will only get you so far <3 i think this boy needs a new hobby <3

some things:

the designs of the birdhouses are based off the twins' bedroom. they start off a bit more messy and simple but get more detailed towards the bottom. he's getting better thru practice! and the last pentacle is still a work in progress

the fireflies were originally going to be flowers, and i think i spent like 20 minutes googling native japanese wildflowers that would grow in a setting like this and also had the right flower symbolism i needed 🫠 but anyway in one of the early check-ins someone said they liked the fireflies and i thought sure!!!! sounds good lmao :D imo they imply a late summers evening and a long day of outdoor work which probably works better than me struggling with flower symbolism lol

the shoes looks good as hell before i remembered i had to cover them up with grass and the frame. now they just blend in to the piano a bit. sad!

for some reason i did all the line art for this and then painted it anyway. why did i do that.

i'm still kinda fond of the first one with miki studiously leaning over a miniature rose garden while the actual garden grows wild around him... one of the interpretations of eight of pentacles (reversed) is being so focused on details that you overlook the bigger picture, which i think really fits miki as the student councils Bloke Who Does Fuck All. he has the appearance of someone who's very analytical and sensible, but he's so locked in his own tiny perception of the world that he mostly just comes up with whatever conclusions suit him best, regardless of any harm he might be ignoring or outright causing. HOWEVER that's kind of an ungenerous interpretation for a relatively chill card 😌 also i had no ideas for a background and the composition didn't work with the border so rip to that idea

i liked the stopwatches as pentacles so tried to reuse it in the third design but was out of ideas by then. the seconds thumbnail with the birdhouses and the piano kind of came naturally so that's what i went with :) and it more or less stayed the same in the final result. i was thinking of adding some kozue presence, like empty milkshake cups or a birds nest or graffiti on the side of the old piano, but imo that would have made it too cluttered. i literally did forget to add paint pots tho OOPS

[yeonmuse]

CHROME HEARTS ──but I break them still

❪ CHROME HEARTS ❫ nishimura riki & fem!rea 1.5k w.c ⋆♱✮ fluff/angst ༯ university au ꫂ ၴႅၴ synopsis──★˙nainais library !! @k-films

℘an᭪ : written w tweets at the end of the chapter, (perm list still open, but only 3 slots open for this series taglist)

CHAPTER 8 | wait a minute

Friday, a day which most of your peers spent skipping classes or celebrating the upcoming weekend, the day most anticipated by many college students because Friday meant no classes the next morning, no assignments to stress over, and most of all no waking up early. Most people would push off their work until the last minute and scramble to get it done when the time to turn them in had finally come, yet here you were, sitting beneath the old willow tree in the courtyard lap full of crumpled sheets of sketch paper and pencil shavings. Not to say that your commitment to your craft made you better than anyone-– hell you had 4 unfinished bio assignments gathering dust on your computer, yet here you were unsurprisingly making art your priority, struggling yet again to find your spark.

It was like you’d been experiencing some sort of drought and famine in the art department, the last piece you’d made that you were truly satisfied with was the previous year. You’d practically won over everyone with your weeping angel piece, one of your finest works that seemed almost ethereal, one gaze and it was sure to make anyones skin crawl. But that was last year of course, and now here you sit in the present on the verge of ripping your hair straight from your head, the stress of having absolutely nothing but a blank canvas starting to bubble over. A frustrated sigh spills from your lips as you erase and draw over and over again repeating the same cycle until something sparks. You’d eventually give up brainstorming and turn to drawing straight up circles, shading the outline darker and darker until your pencil had pierced straight through the paper, a complete mockery of your efforts to let your creativity flow.

You thought that the surrounding scene would be helpful, that it would help you zen out as you sat there. Headphones blasting your usual tunes while you sat in a more cheerful environment rather than confine yourself to the art room, but your efforts had gone awry. In reality you just looked lonely and ill tempered, sat openly in the middle of the courtyard with a scowl on your face.

Niki had been taking his leave when he saw you sat in the middle of the courtyard, an annoyed pout on your lips and that same dark cloud he’d seen from before still looming over your head raining down nothing other than defeat and anguish. He couldn’t help but smile, of course he knew you were most likely still losing your shit over this art assignment but all he could think about was how cute you looked. Messy hair most likely from twirling and tugging at it out of frustration, and puffed out cheeks, a tell all that you were far past the annoyance stage. You seemed to be deep in though as he made his way over, headphones over your ears and your gaze practically glued to the empty sheet of paper.

Dropping his bag down in front of you he takes the seat beside you before taking one side of your earbuds and placing it in his own ear.

“Hold on wait a minute..’’ “feel my heart's intention” “hold on wait a minute i left my consciousness in the sixth dimension.’’

“Why is it that you always seem to find me when i’m in the middle of a mental breakdown.’’ You question, pulling the other earbud from your ear and placing it into your lap. He follows suit, removing the other bud and dropping it into your lap with a shrug.

“the real question is why are you always on the verge of a mental breakdown when I see you?’’ He follows up with a question of his own, stealing your sketchbook into his own hands and flipping through the pages.

“There's nothing in there worth looking at.’’ You sigh pulling your knees to your chest and watching as he flips aimlessly through every page with an unspoken interest, his eyes telling a different story with each flip of a page.

“You’re making it seem like they’re terrible. They aren't bad, they just aren’t you and they lack conviction.’’

‘They aren’t you’ three words that spoke volumes and left you with that same queasy feeling you’d gotten the last time he pointed out even the smallest of details about you.

“What exactly is me? I don’t even really know anymore.’’ you sigh as he places the book back into your lap and you slip it into your bag along with your other supplies.

“So that’s your problem, you’re lacking intentiveness, you need a muse…’’ Niki just spews out a blatant observation, but your lack of response was all the confirmation he needed to know that he was right. You were lacking the drive and innovation that you’d once had behind your past works, and whether it be finding your old spark or a new flame to ignite something within you he didn't mind helping you get it back.

“It’s just frustrating, I’ve never had to think this much.’’ you exhale, a defeated sigh following your words as you tried to grasp what could have possibly been your turning point leading you here, sure you were burned out but there had been many occasions where you’d overworked yourself to the point of insomnia yet you never lost your spark then so why now?

“You need a break, you’re burned out, and it’s leading you to have an inspiration blockage. As long as i’ve seen you in class you never stop, your focus is always glued to the canvas, even after classes when it's just the two of us in the art room i’ve never seen you give yourself a breather.’’ His words were like a smack in the face, not for negative reasons but because he seemed to make the observations you’d prayed no one would ever bring to your attention. He didn’t care whether they were the best or worst parts of you he always mentioned them without fail.

“I- don’t really…I never really had much time for a breather, inspiration goes just as quick as it comes..I’ve learned it the hard way.’’

“What inspiration is there to lose if you’re lacking it right now?’’ heretorts, clapping back so fast it made you fall quiet and your lips pressed into a thin line, he was absolutely right and you had nothing to say to counter his comment.

“Go out with me tomorrow.’’ your eyebrows crease at his suggestion, a suggestion that made the air catch in your throat, yet before you could get the wrong idea he continued on. “I’ll take you to a few places in the city, if inspo is what you need then I know all the perfect places.”

“Are you trying to trick me into going on that date with you, after i rejected you the first time.’’ you respond, an amused grin on your lips at which he rolls his eyes.

“Seems like you’re the only one still stuck on the date, seeing as you’re the one bringing it up. If It were a date I'd have no problem asking you again.’’ he responds, his gaze telling all that he was completely serious. Now here you sat completely melting beneath his gaze and the worst part was you couldn’t even fathom the reason why, why your skin seemed to be lit ablaze anytime he gazed at you like that..like he could see right through you.

“Whatever.’’ you mumble, finally breaking her awkward silence streak with a scrunch of your nose that made Niki smile to himself.”fine i’ll go with you, if this doesn’t work you owe me banana milk for wasting my valuable time.’’

Your chatter continued, even the exchange of phone numbers and home addresses, and unbeknownst to the two of you two glaring eyes had caught the entire interaction, even up until Niki had finally gotten up and left and you were left alone again.

You find yourself smiling at the interaction, only looking up when you hear the crunch of leaves before you, you’d assume it was Niki coming back because he’d forgotten something but instead you find your best friend looking at you as if she’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

“Oh Mako I didn’t know you had classes today.’’ you shoot her a smile, one she doesn’t return she just glances back and forth between you and the direction Niki had just gone.

“I had to pick up my books from the library…” her words trail off before she looks at you, her gaze full of skepticism and another emotion you were finding hard to read. “You two close now? All of a sudden?’’

“Mako we shared a few conversations that’s all? It’s not like i’m running to him sharing my secrets.’’

“You aren’t starting to like him or anything are you?’’ you found yourself dumbfounded by the question, meanwhile she stood looking at you with a look in her eyes that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Mako, he’s just a friend.’’ you respond hesitantly, because if you were being truthful you weren’t sure what he was to you..after all you’d only had two conversations with him and as enjoyable as they had been they only left a big question mark at the topic of your relationship with him.

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[melercies]

One Bed Trope [Supports]

Pairing(s): Elliot, Dusekkar, Builderman & Taph

Author's Note: Please let me know if I mischaracterized anyone. I was practically fighting for my life trying to write for these guys. It was fun to write them, but trying to rhyme with Dusekkar made me lose brain cells every second. Survivalists are next. Likes, reposts, and comments are highly appreciated! <3

For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You don’t know, and frankly, I don’t either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. You’re utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where you’re going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighbor’s cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but it’s better than sleeping outside in the cold. 

You couldn’t care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isn’t destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.

Elliot:

You’re barely standing by the time you get to the nearest cabin, the smell of smoke still clung to your clothes, and the ruins of your shelter fresh in your mind. Spectre really did a number this time. You raise your hand and knock, only half expecting whoever was within their cabin to be there.

There’s the sound of muffled clutter before the door swings open.

“Whoa—!” Elliot blurts out. His visor is tilted slightly askew, eyes wide as he takes in your soot-smudged state before his expression softened into that classic worried Elliot look. “Are you okay?! What happened—no, wait, don’t answer that yet—come in, come in.”

You’re too tired to explain much beyond the words: “Spectre. Cabin’s gone. Burned down.”

Elliot ushers you in like a panicked restaurant host. “Okay, yeah. That’s… awful. You should’ve come sooner, I—I can make something warm, I’ve got pizza. Or, uh, water? You’re not hurt, are you?” He’s already moving around the room, grabbing mismatched things, tripping slightly over a pizza box, and muttering, “Smooth, Elliot. Real smooth.”

The moment you step inside, he’s already clearing a spot for you to sit down. “Sorry about the mess! I was reorganizing my stuff—uh, gear. Same thing, sorta.”

His cabin feels…weirdly cozy, even if it’s a little messy. Warm light glows from an old camping lantern, and the entire place smells faintly like garlic bread. Piles of rolled-up maps, energy drinks, empty pizza boxes, and extra red-colored visors clutter the corners. Still, it’s homey. Lived-in. Human, especially in a place like this.

You clock the single bed instantly. Elliot follows your gaze before scratching the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

“I, uh… I’ve got another blanket? And a couple of pillows. And I can totally take the floor if—”

You cut him off. “No need. We can share.”

That seems to give him a moment to process. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I mean—I don’t snore or anything. I think. Probably.” 

He approaches the bed as he spends the next few minutes nervously straightening the bed, fluffing the pillow twice before realizing you just want to lie down already. When the lights are finally off, you expect him to roll over and go quiet.

But he doesn’t.

“…Hey,” he whispers after a while. “I know this place sucks. Like, it's basically hell. But you’re not alone, okay? I’ve got you.”

Hearing such words of reassurance and comfort. It’s a practical contradiction in this repeated cycle of survival that’s filled with constant bloodshed, but it’s enough. Everyone needs it as of right now.

A moment of silence passes after his words. Then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of foil nearby.

“…Also. I saved a slice.”

You smile faintly, not even looking, just reaching back until your hand touches warm pizza. And honestly? Maybe this night wasn’t all that bad.

Dusekkar:

The ruins of your cabin smolder in the distance, blackened wood hissing under the slow creep of night. The Spectre’s chaos had left nothing behind. Perfect. Let’s hope the Spectre had a good laugh about it. With exhaustion dragging limbs like weights and frost biting through your clothes, you approach the one cabin with a flickering lantern still glowing in the window. You barely think about whose cabin you’re standing in front of, only that it’s intact and has a door that might lead to warmth.

You knock once. Twice. Then, pause. You’re about to leave, thinking the individual has long gone to slumber or isn’t in the mood to converse with anyone, when it creaks open.

Standing in the doorway is Dusekkar.

His antlers cast jagged shadows behind him, robes rustling. The orange fire inside his dark blue pumpkin head flickers once as the firelight casts strange glyphs across the inside of his pumpkin head, and then he speaks, voice like a lantern’s flame—soft, warm, and ancient:

“A visitor calls on ashen breath,

Cold and burnt from the trial’s death,

Spectre’s rage, your home undone…

Rest you seek, until the next sun?”

Too tired to even make sense of the rhyme, you just nod. “I don't care where I sleep. I just rather…not freeze out here.”

Dusekkar doesn’t move for a second — simply studying you with that eternal, flickering stare. Then he steps aside, gesturing with the tip of his staff. You cross the threshold.

The interior is serene—more of a shrine than a home. Glowing runes shimmer along the walls, and the air carries a subtle scent of smoke and lavender. Deeper inside the cabin, shelves and tables are softly illuminated by flickering blue candles. Nearby, a single bed is tucked carefully beside a stack of scrolls and ancient-looking books that probably seem to have existed long before Telamon.

“There’s only one bed,” you mutter. “Of course there is.”

Dusekkar tilts their head, seemingly hearing what you’ve said. His staff clicks softly against the floor as they move to stir the fire. 

“This realm allows what fate permits. One bed, one soul. The tale now fits.”

He motions you toward it but makes no move to lie down himself. Instead, they settle cross-legged in the corner of the room, staff resting across their lap.

You frown. “Aren’t you going to sleep too?”

“I dream while waking—sleep, I lend. The fire burns for you, my friend.”

He gently taps his staff against the wooden wall — two knocks, pause, then one. A steady rhythm.

“A signal known, a warding spell, To shield your mind where shadows dwell. So sleep, my friend, while fire glows — And when you wake, we’ll strike our foes.”

You don’t understand everything he says. But the warmth from the fire, the eerie calm of the room, and the sense that he truly is watching over you — it’s enough. You feel protected, strangely.

Although there’s also a strange comfort in the way he speaks. 

You lie down, letting the warmth soak into your skin as the fire crackles beside you, eyes growing heavy. Just as sleep begins to take you, you hear his voice again — quieter this time, almost a lullaby:

“The bed is small, but dreams are wide — And in this cabin, you’re safe inside.”

Builderman:

Honestly, you barely remember dragging your feet back toward where your cabin once stood— a hollow, scorched impression in the natural ground now. Smoke clings to the ruins like a bitter memory. There’s nothing left. The Spectre could’ve done it out of their enjoyment or anger. Who knows?

You stand there for a while, just staring at the ash until the cold sets into your bones like ice.

There’s no time to feel sorry for yourself. Tomorrow is just another day, and the next round will come like clockwork. You won’t survive it if you’re not half-frozen and unrested.

You don’t think — you just walk. Not toward anyone in particular. Your mind’s too fogged, your legs too tired.

By the time you approach a door, knocking once, twice, then lean your head against the doorframe, eyes half-closed. You expect silence.

Instead, the door clicks open.

Builderman stands there, gray-skinned and underslept, hoodie slightly ruffled, his Turbo Builders Club hat tilted just a bit from where he’s probably been dragging his hands through his hair in stress. His default expression — somewhere between disappointed and exhausted. Not at you. At the world. This situation. At the weight he’s been carrying for years.

“...Cabin’s gone?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod.

“...You look like hell,” he mutters. “Get in.”

The cabin is exactly what you’d expect — minimalistic, neat, and functional. There are workbenches tucked in the corners, plans scattered across the desk, and blueprints pinned with bent nails to the wall. A half-assembled generator lies in pieces on the floor, half-finished as if he’d given up mid-build. The air smells like solder and printer paper.

And there it is.

In all its glory.

The one bed.

You eye it, then glance back at Builderman. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a backup plan for this, too?”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair before slumping against the wall. “I’ll take the floor. You’ve done enough rounds. I can’t afford to have you limping tomorrow.”

You scoff. “You think I’m gonna let the founder of Roblox sleep on the floor?”

He frowns. “That title doesn’t mean much anymore. Besides, it’s not like I sleep much.”

But later, when the fire burns low and the weight of the day finally pulls you down, you find Builderman sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his hoodie, staring into the firelight with a thousand-yard stare.

You open one eye. “You’re gonna break your back sitting like that.”

He huffs, lips twitching like he might laugh. “I’ve built buildings and worlds from nothing. I’ll survive a night with poor posture.”

Silence before he speaks again.

“Just take the bed. I’ll be up most of the night anyway.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off with a look — the same one he gives Shedletsky when he’s about to do something stupid.

“Don’t argue. I’ve made worse sacrifices.”

So you shut your mouth, brain too exhausted to even think of sentences to say.

The sheets are surprisingly warm. Not soft, exactly, but warm — and that’s enough to suffice. Builderman returns to the desk by the window, scribbling notes, calculations, or even plans by lantern light. You watch him from under the blanket as your eyelids grow heavier.

But eventually, the cold wears him down. With a muttered “Scoot,” he lies beside you, stiff as a board, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling.

You both lie there in silence for a while — until his voice breaks the quiet, barely above a whisper:

“We’ll rebuild it. Your cabin. I’ll help you design it.”

You don’t respond at first — you’re already fading into sleep — but the corner of your mouth tugs up.

“Thanks… Boss.”

He grunts. “Don’t call me that.”

But the blanket shifts slightly more in your direction anyway. Just enough to share.

Taph:

You’re so tired that you barely feel your feet dragging through the grass. The sky is a heavy black curtain above you, and the burnt-out remains of your cabin still glow behind you like the dying embers of a failed promise.

Thanks, Spectre.

You don’t know whose cabin you’re knocking on. You’re too cold, too exhausted, and clearly, too far past the point of caring. You just need four walls and a roof.

The door opens without a word. No quick movement, no startled reaction.

Taph stands there.

His hood cast his face in deep shadow, the yellow runic lines across his robes faintly glowing under the moonlight. His bandit mask concealed any chance of reading his expression. Not that it mattered. He’d never said a word anyway.

Still, the meaning in his stillness was clear: What happened?

You gestured vaguely behind you. “Spectre. No cabin. No roof. Just…fire.”

He tilted his head slightly, then stepped aside. That’s an invitation enough.

Inside, Taph’s cabin smelled of gunpowder and old books. Dim lanterns flickered overhead, illuminating his intricate setup; trap schematics, disassembled mechanisms, spare wires, and trip lines hung with precision across the workbenches. And off to the side, one surprisingly neat bed, tucked into the corner.

Just one.

Your shoulders sag as Taph watches.

“Only one bed,” you mutter aloud. “Of course.”

Taph looks at you briefly. Then he gestures, a two-finger flick toward the bed.

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? Are you okay with that?”

He pauses, then nods once. 

“I can sleep on the floor,” you say quietly, a little unsure. 

He slowly shakes his head. 

You sigh, too drained to argue.

The mask reveals nothing, but the gesture itself is calm from Taph. It’s less about ‘you owe me’ and more ‘you’ve been through enough.’ You found yourself smiling a little at the comforting gesture.

You approach and ease down onto the edge of the bed, removing your gear. The bed is simple: wool blanket, faint scent of iron and dust, but undeniably warmer than the outside.

Taph joins you a moment later, setting down a quiet clinking of traps and parts. He lies back against the wall beside you, arms resting on his lower half. Still saying nothing. Just watching the window, the horizon, the stars beyond the fog. His breathing is soft, nearly inaudible.

Even in his presence, there’s something watchful about the air. You’re used to survivors speaking, venting, even shouting during rounds. But Taph is different.

In the quiet, your voice slips out.

“You always wear that hood, even to sleep?”

He doesn’t move.

But eventually… a single nod.

You chuckle faintly. “Figures.”

Stillness.

Then, you feel something — not a hand, not a gesture, but a subtle shift in the mattress. Just enough for your weight to balance more evenly. 

You stare up at the ceiling. The wind howls outside.

“...Do you ever wonder if we’ll make it out of this for good?”

He doesn’t answer with words.

Instead, he reaches out slowly, signing towards you.

“I hope so. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

You watch his gloved hand linger for a second before resting. No words. Just that.

Hope in a situation like this.

It was enough. For now.

[transforming-transformer]

Charming

Chapter One: Dreams Come True

———

Everyone surely knows of Cinderella. A maiden stuck in an abusive household and forced to be a servant to her wicked stepmother and cruel stepsisters, who by the magic of her fairy godmother was able to go to the ball and dance with Prince Charming. Then she runs away at midnight, while the Prince goes looking for the girl who lost her glass slipper, till Cinderella wears it and it’s a perfect fit. The two of them get married, and it’s happily ever after. You know that story, right?

Well, if only you knew that there wasn’t exactly a happily ever after. Once the story ended, all its characters were forced to relive the story from the very beginning, their lives bound by the rules of the fairy tale, going on forever, and ever… and one of those unfortunate characters stuck in this endless cycle… was me. I was the Prince Charming of Cinderella’s story - a plain, unassuming, undeveloped character that only appeared whenever Cinderella was at the ball, and at the wedding.

The story just went on, and on, and on, in the same cycle, over and over... and I was getting deathly bored of it.  Look, Cinderella was a beautiful girl, but after a thousand repeats of this life, I stopped finding her as attractive as I did the first few times I met her. Not just that, there just didn't seem to be any land beyond the kingdom... only plain white light. 

I felt trapped, and it was suffocating me in a way I never felt before. As I danced with Cinderella once more, I began to dream of a day I could get out of this wretched story, and find out who I really was behind my lackluster role as a charming prince.

—

James always liked the story of Prince Charming and Cinderella growing up. Considering it was the first Disney film he remembered watching as a kid, the tale of someone finding their rightful place and rising above cruelty was endearing to him. That and he was gay, no matter the portrayal, James always loved the idea of having a prince charming of his very own.

“A handsome man that could come sweep him off his feet and fix all his problems? Who wouldn't be drawn to that?” he thought to himself often as he grew up. See, when James was ten, those problems were petty and small, after all, children’s problems were quite simple. Now that he was 26, a maths teacher who struggled to make ends meet, the problems he wanted to be sorted magically were vastly different. 

While James was on a trip to Oxford for the weekend, visiting some of his family. They explored the city, looking around and doing whatever shopping they needed, and planned to meet later in the evening for dinner. As he wandered around the large campus of the University of Oxford, a twinkle of curiosity flickered in his eye as he found himself near the Bodleian Library, one of the oldest libraries in the world. Entering through the doors, James got to browsing the shelves of old books, not really touching them, just looking. 

That was… until he set eyes on a copy of the original printing of Charles Perrault’s Cinderella… and he couldn't resist pulling it off the shelf and opening it, taking a seat at a nearby nook to read.

As James opened the old, small leatherbound book, he marveled at the beautiful illustrations, feeling immersed in the beautiful world of the fairy tale. It felt like hours passed when he eventually reached the scene of the ball, and just as he turned the page, there I stood, yawning as the girls of the kingdom presented themselves.

Yet, as I looked up to the ceiling of the castle, by some strange magic, I could see James smiling as he looked at me, admiring how handsome I looked. Startled, I stood back, and shouted. 

"Hey, you there!" I moved forward and walked around the page, as if moving towards James. "Get me out of here!" I pleaded.

James’ mouth dropped open as he watched the illustration of me in this old book moving in front of him, as if alive. Almost dropping the book by surprise, he peered down at the page as I spoke. 

"Wait... Are you talking to me? Am I being pranked or something?” James glanced away from the book and around the library, but saw no one watching, before turning his focus back on the moving drawing.

"What... What can I do? You're him, right? Prince Charming?" The unassuming nerdy man asked, feeling a bit silly talking to an old book, but... then again, I’d spoken to him first.

Surprised that he heard my plea, I nervously nodded. 

"I am, but I'm getting bored of this. It's the same story cycle over and over. I meet Cinderella at the ball. We dance. She runs off at midnight and loses a slipper. You know the rest... I can't handle it anymore." I shook my head, throwing my hands in the air, frustrated. 

"I just wish I could escape and live a life of my own, for crying out--" 

Before I could even finish my sentence, my body and mouth froze. The old book began to float from James’ hands, which caused him to fall on his ass, and all of a sudden, a bright light blasted from it. It wasn’t an ordinary light by any chance, it was magical. The wish I just made was about to come true, and neither of us knew what was about to happen.

Just as he stood up and marveled at the golden glow emerging from the pages, a handsome, muscular man flew out of the book, as if ripped out, and landed on top of James, before the book closed itself and fell on the floor in a thud. 

“You... You're..." James groaned and blinked a couple of times at the alluring hunk that had just fallen on top of him, till his eyes popped wide. Wait… he didn't look quite like the illustrations, less perfectly pretty than Prince Charming had always been drawn, but still gorgeous. 

"Ow..." I groaned as I slowly got up, unaware that I wasn't an illustration on a page anymore...

James sheepishly asked, “You aren't him... Are you? Charming? Did you just jump out of that book...?"

I gasped for air and rushed myself off of… the man I saw in the ceiling? I raised my eyebrow and froze in my tracks. I wasn’t in a ballroom, and there were girls in dresses. I looked down at myself - no dress uniform on my body, just a simple blue… shirt of sorts, and strange illustrations on my hands and arms.

As I looked around at my surroundings, I gasped. There were just rows and rows of books, the Cinderella book on the floor… and James just stood there, mouth agape in utter shock.

“I made it out of the fairy tale?” I asked him, unsure of what else to say.

———

Hello, Tumblr! I'm back with a new story after some time. I really hope you all enjoy Chapter 1 of Charming!

This story, and its continuing chapters, are based off a fun roleplay I recently did on Discord with @tf-lover, who is a phenomenal writer himself, so please go support his work too!

Chapter 2 will be coming very soon! 

If you're interested in commissioning a story from me, see my post on commissions here! If you can't or don't want to commission any stories, you can also tip me over on ko-fi!

[traceybrakes]

Let's Talk About Un-ironicizing Art!

In light of a lot of the conversations i've seen surrounding Death Grips and recent events concerning them, I want to take the time to point out that this is a good time to start thinking about how we engage with art on the whole!

For a long time, the irony poisoned method of consumption went unchecked in all facets of internet culture. As an internet musician in current day, I have noticed a sharp disconnect between artists and enthusiasts/casual listeners when it comes to attitudes surrounding music specifically, though I've witnessed it permeate all forms of art in some way.

I see people who have grown scared to engage on deeper levels, intentionally severing any resonant connections or knowledge learned from a piece of media before it has the chance to take root. In short, dare to be vulnerable! Dare to enjoy something on the basis that you yourself resonate with it, and not for any other nebulous reasoning. When masses of people relegate art to a spectacle, not only do artists become more likely to be disenchanted with the passions that fuel their work, but the audience ultimately suffers as well. All art at that point becomes less an extension of ourselves, less a vehicle to explore our identities, and is rendered a meaningless hulking sludge, or worse, the opponent to an already shrinking and narrow worldview.

Be not afraid to be unabashedly in love with the work that inspires you. Be not afraid to have the things you love misunderstood by some. When you engage with work new and old, make sure to do it for yourself. Making and observing art is inherently selfish, but being selfish is not inherently misguided. Allow yourself to learn, grow, discover, and repeat that cycle until the day you die.

To speak more candidly about my own experience, throughout the course of my life, there has been art that I've held near and dear to my identity, and own journey of self discovery that I seldom find others who hold the same sentiments to. I've always found this exciting. Exciting to hold something close to my chest as something so personal, and even more exciting when I can ease up on that grip when I find someone who I can share that with. However, I've also been through the throes of how the internet tends to chew up and spit out art that generally isn't understood by the many. I've fallen victim myself to the hive mind mentality that circles some artists and the cult of non-identity around them. This off-color ouroboros of knowing all about an artist's work and simultaneously upholding this facade of vapid complacency. I've come to the conclusion that if being openly supportive and connected to an artist's work or a particular piece of work automatically renders a person uninteresting and unambiguous at the very least, then I will live happily as an uninteresting open book. At the worst times, we see this line of thinking contribute to Death Grips being mocked and belittled en masse by people who are unwilling to engage with their art before they even get that far. It's heartbreaking, to me at least to see people put so much effort, emotion, and passion into transforming culture for the better to be rewarded with a crowd that's plugging their ears.

I realize I run the risk of sounding self indulgent, or even patronizing to an extent; I apologize because that isn't my intention, I'm hoping to see gears shift at least on a micro level surrounding attitudes towards art appreciation. Remember to dare to be in love holistically with the art you engage with! Speak of the things you love in a way that makes that clear to others, and consider your peers to do the same! You and the people around you can only be better off for it.

[zeropro]

Thundercracker: Origins

New Trine AU Fanfic posted on AO3! Check it out if you want, this one's a two parter about Thundercracker (and Starscream).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62847191/chapters/160913611

Full chapter under the cut:

Chapter 1

The first of the seeker class was shipped directly to the air force. When it became clear that even a dedicated warbuild could not survive the intricacies of aerial combat on instinct alone, they began sending them to the Cybertronian War Academy first, for basic training at the very least. When enrollment for that became too full to manage, it was then deemed appropriate for certain city-states to offer civilian jobs to newly onlined seekers. Most of these seekers found themselves sequestered in Vos; as the central location of Cybertron’s air force, they stood out the least in that city. 

It was there, in the lower end of Vos, that a certain blue seeker lived out his days. His name was Thundercracker, and nothing exciting ever happened to him.

Thundercracker would say he preferred it that way. An exciting life was a demanding life. It meant expectations and hard decisions and the stress of unpredictability. Thundercracker avoided all that by keeping up a dutiful routine. Everyday he’d wake up, refuel, go to work, come back home, refuel again, watch the news, recharge, and repeat. It was a quiet life. He didn’t go out for fun, and he didn’t try to make friends. Other mechs stressed him out: the city was full of grounders that grabbed and slapped at his wings and seekers that harassed him for not being military. Thundercracker didn’t want to join the military. Thundercracker didn’t want to be anything at all.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight (as a warbuild, he was quite literally built for fighting), and it wasn’t that he couldn't fly, (in his humble opinion, Thundercracker could outfly most of the air force if given the chance); it was just, despite his class function, Thundercracker didn’t have the temperament for a soldier’s life. Consequences were so much steeper when death was involved. Dying scared him, but being forced to kill scared him more; and he would kill, if the military told him to. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but the law was the law, and Thundercracker always did what he was told.

The military was run by grounders, as was much of Cybertronian society. It was a hold over from the Functionalist ideology that ruled the past, which still permeated much of Cybertronian law to this day. Thundercracker found it utterly ridiculous–after all flight frames were clearly the superior model–but he didn’t make the rules.

The senate made the rules, and all he had to do was follow them in order to live out his life in peace.

Delivering packages wasn’t an interesting or glamorous job, but it did mean he got to fly a lot. Gliding from lower Vos to the High Spires and back down to the Lights Districts, the routes were monotonous and dull, but he could focus on the air across his wings and the thrum of his engines to keep himself sane. Flying was one freedom he would not give away. And so it went, day after day, cycle after deca-cycle, the vorns blending into one another as Thundercracker repeated his routine.

Half a million stellar cycles of the same old, same old, and nothing exciting ever happened.

Only, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one notable exception to the uneventfulness that was Thundercracker’s entire existence, and that exception always made itself known when he least expected.

It was a day like any other: same morning routines, same familiar routes, processor dimly wandering over several different topics without ever committing to any particular thought. There was no reason to believe anything other than a half cube of energon and a quiet evening in front of the vid screen would be waiting for him at home. 

He was standing in the middle of his tiny apartment, about to take a sip from his cube, when a peculiar knock assaulted his door.

Tap, tap, rapitty tap.

Thundercracker slowly put down his cube as he turned to stare at the door, wondering if he had imagined the sound. After the briefest of moments, he heard it again.

Tap, tap, rapitty tap!

His vents stuttered in a suppressed groan. It had been an eternity, yet he’d recognize the sound anywhere. There was only one mech who ever knocked on Thundercracker’s door in that exact fashion. A mech who only ever showed up when he was in some kind of dubiously dire situation. A mech Thundercracker never quite had enough energy for.

That mech looked way too happy to see him when he opened the door.

“Starscream.”

“Oh good! You remember me!”

The white, red, and blue seeker at his doorstep grinned manically up at him. He seemed to be panting ever so slightly, as if he’d been straining his engines, and a stray suspicion at the back of Thundercracker’s processor wondered who or what might have chased him here. 

“You better not have done anything actually illegal this time,” he said with a glower.

Starscream barked out a laugh. “Of course not! But I do need your help. Follow me!”

That was all the warning he got. Thundercracker hardly had time to register the command before Starscream kicked off the ground into his alt mode and zoomed away. Without thinking, Thundercracker shut the door and raced after him. It wasn’t until he caught up to Starscream’s tail wind that he even wondered what they were doing.

Starscream set a brisk pace. Vos became a blur of lights beneath them as they flew towards the outskirts of town, turbines humming in tandem.

This was their first time flying together.

Glancing over at the smaller seeker, it occurred to him that he and this mech were still practically strangers. So much time had passed since their first fateful encounter, and yet they’d only interacted a handful of times, and only ever when Starscream needed someone to bail him out of trouble. It was his own damn fault, Thundercracker supposed: he was only in this position because of the one time in his function he didn’t mind his own business. The one time he decided, on a whim, to deviate from his regular path, to follow a trail of energon down that dark alleyway. 

That was where he found him. The terrified seeker had somehow crammed himself into the seams of the buildings, knees drawn up to his chest in an attempt to make himself as small as possible. It was unclear how long he had been there, sat in a pool of his own energon. It had taken forever to coax him out of his hiding spot. Both his hands were missing.

Thundercracker helped him. Of course he did. He wouldn’t have felt right leaving him there, and it wasn’t like it would cost him much. He had carried him home, helped him refuel, and then walked him to the nearest clinic. The medical bill did cost him quite a lot, but it had seemed like the right thing to do.

And then it was over; the next day, he was gone. He hadn’t expected to ever see the seeker again after that, and his life went back to normal.

The first time Starscream showed up on his doorstep asking for help, so much time had passed that Thundercracker hardly recognized him at first. Gone was that haunted look in his optics, completely replaced by an obnoxiously cocky attitude and whirlwind personality that easily commanded the room. Thundercracker barely registered having let him in before the tri-colored seeker was lounging on his couch, drinking his energon and chatting up a storm.

And so it was that Starscream would disappear for a hundred vorn or so at a time before suddenly turning up at Thundercracker’s door needing to borrow credits or a place to crash after having lost his latest job to one thing or another. There was always a story behind it. Starscream was absolutely full of stories! In the spans of time between each visit, Starscream would fly all over Cybertron, living in several different cities, working several different jobs that all defied the limitations of his frame type’s function. He had at different times been a medic, a prosecutor, a frame model, a politician, and apparently even a functionalist priest for a brief stint. That last one had gotten him in trouble with the law, but he swore it wasn’t his fault.

Thundercracker wasn’t entirely sure how much he believed Starscream’s tall tales, embellished as they were, but it was impossible not to be drawn in by the absurdity that was Starscream’s life. Starscream talked about everything, from politics to theater, from how badly Thundercracker needed to maintain his polish to the best way to drink engex, and of course every work-related drama he’d ever been involved in.

The more Starscream talked about himself, the less Thundercracker felt like he knew him.

Who was he really? Where had he come from?

And where exactly were they going now?

He scarcely finished the thought when the roar of engines caught his attention. Two seekers had entered the air space behind them and were quickly gaining speed. Emblazoned on their wings was the symbol of Cybertron’s air force. 

“What did you do?!” Thundercracker shouted at his companion, completely incensed that Starscream would not only get in trouble with the military, but decide to drag him into it as well. Thundercracker had work in the morning, he couldn't afford to go to jail!

Starscream’s wings wiggled slightly; the fragger was giggling.

“Don’t worry about it, Thundercracker! Just keep up and follow my lead!”

Starscream blasted off. The guy was fast, and Thundercracker could barely manage to keep up. The military seekers gave chase, but at a much slower pace than would be expected, allowing the distance between them to surmount. Just as Thundercracker thought they might actually lose them, Starscream banked upwards so tightly it forced Thundercracker to pull an insane swivel and flip just to swing back around. He could see Starscream making loops ahead of him, giving him a chance to catch up, but as soon as Thundercracker was at his wing, he was forced into another dangerous stunt. Starscream spun and pressed and volleyed almost playfully around him, corralling him into tight turns and sharp dives and complicated flight maneuvers seemingly at random. It was all he could do not to collide in the air, ailerons straining against the turbulence.

It was exhilarating!

Thundercracker had never flown this hard before. He spent so much time retracing the same inter-city routes that he forgot just how amazing it felt to really cut loose in the open sky. With Starscream’s antics adding an extra layer of complexity and challenge to the flight, Thundercracker could feel himself pushing his frame and concentration to their limits in a way that just felt good.

For a blissful few breems, it was as if nothing else existed outside of the controlled chaos of their flight, but as soon as they began to descend, Thundercracker remembered where he was and who was still in the air with them. His earlier trepidation slammed back into his frame as the other two seekers followed them to the ground, and he self-consciously wondered if they had been watching the entire time. At least Starscream seemed completely unbothered by their presence, laughing high and bright as he transformed into his landing. It was a small assurance that neither of them were going to get arrested tonight for whatever it was they were just doing.

Thundercracker landed stiffly, keeping Starscream between him and the seekers touching down a short distance away. The pair transformed into root mode with all the practiced bravado of seasoned warriors. They wore the nosecones of their alt modes tall and proud over their helms, in the traditional fashion of Polyhexian seekers. Thundercracker gulped– they looked really cool.

“Well?” Starscream said, turning to address them with an arrogant smirk plastered on his faceplates, arms splayed wide like a gladiator taunting his opponent. “I do believe I have proven my point!”

One of the seekers turned his helm away with a growl, but his partner gave them a good natured smirk. “Fine, we will concede. That was some pretty impressive flying up there. You know, the force could use more seekers with your talent.”

Starscream examined his claws. “I’d be wasted on the military. My skillsets were honed for free flight, not rank and file.”

“You’d be surprised. Command positions do open up occasionally.”

“Oh?”

They were just chatting now, Thundercracker realized. With a few more words of polite banter, the two seekers soon kicked off and flew away into the skyline, leaving Starscream looking far too pleased with himself and Thundercracker completely and utterly baffled by the exchange.

“...What was that?!”

Starscream flinched at the tone, but Thundercracker was too tense to feel bad about it. The smaller seeker at least had the decency to look apologetic as he turned to face him with a placating grin. “Heh, it’s a long story, but I may have gotten a bit overcharged at a bar a few cities down and implied I could outfly a pair of air marshals who would NOT let it go. In my defence, I tried to avoid them! They just kept finding me, demanding I back my claim!” 

Thundercracker felt sick with embarrassment. “THAT’S what you dragged me out here to do? To…to…skydance in front of a pair of professionals? What made you think…I’ve never even flown formation before in my life! I…Oh Primus, I must have looked like an idiot.”

“But you were amazing!” Starscream praised, his smile beaming with sincerity. “I did NOT go easy on you up there, but you matched me wing for wing! Listen, I told them I could outfly any pair on Cybertron, and these mechs have been hounding me for stellar cycles to prove it to them. And we flew circles around them! Thundercracker, if that was your first time flying paired, then you are a sky-blessed genius!”

Thundercracker immediately deflated at the earnest praise being heaped on him. He was still really miffed at Starscream for taking advantage of him like that, at how easily it all could have gone bottom up, how one wrong move could have sent them both spiraling to the ground in an embarrassed heap. But they hadn’t. He didn’t mess up, and they didn’t crash and make fools of themselves, and according to a pair of air force trained seekers, he had been good enough to impress. He couldn't deny how good the validation felt, how good the flying had felt. His wings fluttered bashfully as he let the remaining tension bleed out of his frame.

Sensing the change, Starscream pranced to his side and hooked their arms together. “Hey, how about I make it up to you? Come on! It’ll be my treat.” And before he could ask what that meant, he was dragged back into the air. With a resigned chuckle, he transformed and followed Starscream back to the city.

They filled the rest of the night with dive bars and live shows as he let Starscream drag him all across town. Everywhere they went, Starscream somehow made himself the center of attention, allowing Thundercracker to always be part of the action while staying out of the spotlight. It was comfortable, following Starscream around. The tri-colored seeker always knew what he wanted and where to get it, and Thundercracker never once had to worry about what to say or what to do next. They drank high-grade and shared stories and danced the night away.

And then it was morning, and Starscream was gone.

It was all an expected part of the long established pattern; just as Starscream always showed up when he least expected it, he also always left without warning or care. No ‘goodbyes’ or ‘we’ll meet agains’, just one moment there and gone the next. Thundercracker stood in the middle of his tiny apartment and sipped from his cube as he got ready for work, and something about the space seemed just a tad bit quieter than it used to. He flew his same old routes down the same city blocks and the air traffic felt just a tad bit slower than it used to.

That night he watched the news and thought about flying.

[cchrysallis]

You sure you still want to be a proxy?

Sometimes you ask yourself how you ended up here, in this life.

Same routine — wake up, patrol the forest, kill, hunt, come home, clean your weapons, sleep. The cycle repeats. Every. Damn. Day.

Some proxies like it.

Most who tolerate it had no future to begin with — just another broken child, another failure, another horror in the system.

They had nothing.

They were “saved” by the Operator — that blessed excellence that drains you every day — the cancer under your skin.

Those who couldn’t tolerate it... they had something.

A future.

God, you still remember how Brian’s shoulders used to drop whenever someone brought up psychology, or that café he used to go to every morning during college.

He had a future.

He had a life — and it was stripped from his hands like a mother taking candy from a child’s mouth.

It’s pathetic.

They all fight for space, for approval, for survival in the woods — forgetting that deep down, they were all the same children who heard doctors whisper to their mothers that there was no cure.

Gurneys, gloves, syringes, files.

All lab rats.

All puppets.

All clawing for scraps from a man in a suit behind a desk, sending mission after mission just to see what the human mind does when it breaks.

You see how Tim comes back—exhausted.

He can’t take it anymore.

The dark under his eyes says it louder than his mouth ever will, or the way his cigarette keeps slipping from his trembling fingers.

You used to ask how his night went after his endless patrols through the woods.

But his eyes told you everything:

God doesn’t walk these woods anymore.

Run — or be consumed.

You see how Brian returns — mud on his camera, blood on his hands, breath heavy.

His eyes cut into your skin every time you dare speak after he walks through the door.

You remember it well — his worn eyes while he cleaned the barrel of his gun.

"Clean the barrel, or let it jam when it counts. You decide."

He taught you how to clean a weapon.

He taught you prayers won’t sanctify your blood — but a tourniquet just might.

God is not in these trees anymore.

But out of everyone — out of every soul working under this cursed thing —

it’s him that unsettles you.

The twitching boy.

The one with the tangled hair.

The bloody axe.

The filthy hoodie.

The leather boots.

The fucked-up jokes.

Goddamn — he’s a fucking maniac.

He kills.

He enjoys it.

He comes back brighter.

He feels pure curiosity in the face of agony.

And you ask:

Does he feel guilty?

Guilt?

He chews the word like cartilage stuck in his teeth.

Guilt is for those who pretend they had a choice.

He didn’t choose this.

He became it.

Like rot becoming part of the bone.

Like rust becoming part of the blade.

Like the axe becoming part of his anatomy.

Like the Proxy symbol carved into his skin like a cancer — slow and patient.

And it’s fucking terrifying.

But still — you think you can fix him.

Patch him up like some broken doll, spit out and painted over, left to rust in a scrapyard collecting dust for eternity.

You always think you know everything, don't you?

You think you're above it — smarter than the roots, the moss, the stench. You think you're sharper than every single bone buried beneath your snow covered boots.

You always think you were smarter than the trees — but they think you taste the same as the others.

Now you know it. You carve the symbol, you bury your name, remember that.

But you aren't afraid of the woods anymore, don't you? You know them. You walk like you belong here now — maybe you do.

That's why you did it.

You walked to his cabin in the dead of night, feeling the cold air graze your skin, the wind whispering in your ears — as if the trees were greeting you.

You sat on the couch in that godforsaken cabin.

The air stank — like rotting meat soaked into the walls.

Ash-covered tube TV.

Ashtrays filled with crushed cigarettes.

Torn carpet.

That old brown couch with holes exposing the yellow foam inside.

And the fireplace still burned — not for warmth, but maybe to keep something worse from crawling in.

And there he was.

Sitting.

Sharpening the blade of his axe.

Tic after tic.

Laugh after laugh.

You couldn’t help but watch him — every line of his face, every twitch of his mouth, every ripple of muscle as the whetstone kissed the edge of steel.

You remember that night clearly — the firewood crackling like bone under pressure.

The silence chewing into your skin like teeth in slow motion.

You remember the question.

"Why do you use an axe?"

And what you got back was just a low laugh — a twitch at the mouth, then the shoulder before he answered.

"B-because it’s f-fun. Nh-h-hm… G-guns end too f-fast. Kn-knives s-s-slip. But this?.."

He lifted it slightly — like showing off a pet.

"Y-you f-feel it... down t-to the bone. They ss-scream and crawl and — nh-hhh — th-that’s the b-best part.

He chuckled — raising the axe in front of him like a muse, like something holy.

"It’s fun to w-watch ‘em… l-listen to th-them plea… b-beg… ffuck—sometimes they cry."

And you could see the memories crawl through his eyes.

Hell, you could almost hear the screaming — right before the skull split down the center.

And it was that night you finally understood.

There are no rosaries in these woods to cleanse you.

No saints to hear you.

No angel names strong enough to stop the blood from warming against your neck.

The forest only respects the sound of a trigger — and the silence that comes after.

You shoot before you cry.

You bury before the crows arrive.

You learn to scrub the blood off your coat before the cold freezes it stiff and shatters you with it.

Because in this land, climbing up is just a slower way to drown.

You rise through the ranks on a staircase made of rib cages and broken promises.

Each step is a name you forget.

Each rung, a piece of you that never comes back.

And when you finally reach what you thought was the top — there’s no light.

Just more woods.

More eyes.

And one truth carved into your soul:

God doesn’t walk where the mud swallows the crosses.

You are no different from the others who fight to survive.

You just bleed quieter.

You run with clenched teeth.

You learned not to scream when the blade goes in.

Everyone here kills to eat — or dies to teach.

No one’s special in the woods — not even you.

The only thing that keeps you from rotting next to the others is how well you carry your own silence without losing your mind.

And if one day you think you’re stronger, smarter, chosen — remember this:

The woods eat the proud before the weak.

Because the weak pray — but the proud answer.

And here? The ones who dares to answer vanishes.

You survive because you’ve accepted being less than human when needed.

Because you know an empty stomach is more merciful than a stranger’s bullet.

Because you’ve killed with a shiver down your spine and hunger in your eyes — and didn’t apologize after.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if you cry or spit.

If you pray or bite.

If you carry a rosary or a blade.

Everyone turns to dirt just the same.

And in the end, there is no purity left.

Not the name they gave you at baptism.

Not the smell of your mother’s kitchen.

Not the memory of her smiling before the world turned its back.

What’s left is what you did.

What you lost.

What you left behind just to keep breathing.

Because when the blood dries on your knuckles, and the trail swallows your footsteps — you realize you were never the exception.

You were never the victim.

You were never the curse.

You were never the salvation.

You’re just another body in motion.

Another weapon with hunger.

Another silence with legs.

You are no different from Brian. From Tim. From Toby.

Not by choice.

But because now — like them —

you’ve gone too far to come back.

[slickvinyl]

𑑛 001. PLOTS INSPIRED BY MY SPOTIFY.

𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐝𝐞 / muse a and muse b have this flirty situationship ⸻ they’re sweet and sour, like pink lemonade on a summer day. muse a is an optimist, always looking for the bright side, even when muse b is distant or pulling away. their dynamic is like the perfect summer fling. muse a wants to believe there’s more than just a fling, but every time they bring it up, muse b either disappears or drowns it in sweet talk and promises that taste good but fade away quickly. muse a is stuck in that in-between, waiting for the ice to melt in a cold drink, knowing that something sweet and refreshing won’t last forever.

𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 / muse a and muse b are best friends who have been dancing around their feelings for years. they’ve never let themselves slip, never let the world see that their touches last a little too long. but one night, at a crowded party, they can’t hold back anymore. they’re kissing in public ⸻ and it's undeniable. the thrill of it all tastes electric, but as they come up for air, they’re faced with the reality: what now? everyone saw. there’s no more hiding behind jokes. it’s either everything or nothing, and neither of them is sure which they’re ready for.

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨 (𝐮𝐡 𝐨𝐡) / muse a and muse b have always been in each other’s lives ⸻ circling, always “almost.” but every time they think they’re ready to be together, something comes up ⸻ an old flame, a new job, an argument that never really ends. it’s always: here we go again. but this time feels different. this time, muse a can’t stop the feeling that it’s now or never. muse b is more cautious, worried about repeating the same mistakes. they’re both tired of the back and forth but can’t deny the fire when they’re together. it’s a gamble⸻ will this be the time they finally get it right, or just another “uh oh” moment they’ll never learn from?

𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 / muse a and muse b broke up months ago, but neither of them has truly let go. they still text late at night, still see each other "by accident," still end up in each other’s beds knowing it always ends the same. muse a swears they’re over it, but every time muse b calls, they pick up. muse b keeps saying they’ve changed, they’re better now ⸻ but the apologies feel recycled and the delusion has worn off. muse b ghosts them and asks like they don't even know muse a's name. it’s a cycle, like a song on loop. they both know how this ends, but it’s easier to replay the same mistake than face the silence of letting go.

𝟓 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬 / muse a and muse b are in an early-stage relationship where every moment feels precious. muse a, always on the move, is constantly pulled away by real-world responsibilities, while muse b yearns for just a little more time together. each morning, as muse a prepares to leave, muse b playfully pleads, “just five more minutes,” hoping to prolong their shared intimacy. their dynamic is a delicate balance of love and the ticking clock, showcasing the bittersweet nature of our favorite moments and the wish to make them last forever.